


3 Times Dr. Chilton Visited a Stripper, and The 1 Time A Stripper Visited Him

by suddenly_im_Mr_sex



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Lap Dances, Pole Dancing, Reader-Insert, Romance, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Surprisingly romantic for a story about dodgy chilton and a stripper, insecure freddy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-19 01:22:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11886927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suddenly_im_Mr_sex/pseuds/suddenly_im_Mr_sex
Summary: Dr Chilton visits a strip club at some point during each season, by series 4, Dr Chilton is enamored, and she's gone... read on. C'mon!





	1. Season 1

I didn’t like to say I liked the job, but I liked the job. It was safe, discrete and often easy money. That being said, I did get my fair share of abuse from some customers; that was just the type. The owner of the club had told me in my interview that the men that frequented the club were just like him, old, rich, horny and bored, which was, in his words- a deadly combination. With that in mind it became pretty easy to read the clients, who they were, what they did, what they wanted, and I suppose my attention to detail proved popular with many customers. I came from a working class family, so when I saw the club’s prices, I knew I would have to bring something special.   
Without stereotyping too much there were generally 3 types of men who enjoyed the club’s services:  
1\. The married man who wasn’t getting any at home  
2\. The business man who didn’t have the time to find a long-term partner  
3\. The giggly ‘just legal’ boy who just looked on in awe

This, by the way is excluding the large portion of clients who fall under the category of ‘have to pay for a woman’s affection because one is an enormous asshole’, I have refrained from making that a fourth category, mainly because this quality often overlaps with the others.   
By no means do I wish to say I’ve seen it all because I certainly haven’t, I have probably heard it all, but there is plenty I am grateful having not yet encountered.  
The doors open at 8pm sharp and I sit alone at the back of the room, the other girls crowd the doorway, or try to look casual at the bar, instead coming across a little desperate. Not that the men mind of course, chances are their fantasy includes a gaggle of beautiful women vying for their attention, but I’d be lying if I said that it didn’t make me feel a little sick. 

I hate to brag, I really do, but I earn the most out of the girls, I don’t attribute this to my looks, not in the slightest, I’ve had my share of compliments but next to the other girls I’m nothing special. I attribute it to quality over quantity. The other girls move around, constantly rotating from guy to guy in an attempt to get as many dances as possible, this works, they might get eight twenty minute dances which pays quite well. But I am more interested in the men whom I call my investments. 

Before you say anything, yes calling people investments is terribly rude, but if I do it with my boobs out they don’t seem to mind, as long as we’re both being objectified together. These men are exactly what the owner described, well-dressed, well-spoken, well-travelled, and well… older. These are the men who will book me for three hours and just want a beautiful, naked lady to talk about their troubles with, and if she happens to laugh at his jokes, causing her chest to jiggle, well that’s just a bonus. 

So, I see now how life thought it must have been time to throw me a curveball; that is how it seems to go. On the 30th of May, 2013, a man walked in the door and straight up to the bar, he was, as every man was, bombarded by beautiful women, and reacted the way they all reacted, happily.   
Tuesday nights were quiet, the man was one of only three seated in the lounges, only another two in private rooms for dances, and this was probably the busiest we’d be all night. To be honest I wasn’t feeling it that night, no motivation, I just wanted to sit there and watch the NBA on the screen near the bar. No one was complaining, the other girls couldn’t be happier to have me backing off for the night. 

He and Lily (probably the most gorgeous employee) took a seat on one of the leather couches, his smug face disrupting my view of the game. Although, I am not, and have never claimed to be blind, he was attractive, certainly more so than the general clientele. He was an investment.   
I looked him over as I did with any other customer, albeit pausing more in certain places… for extra data of course. He would only be an inch or so taller than me, tailored navy suit, expensive pen in breast pocket, manicured nails, perfectly styled dark hair, even his beard was trimmed, with this level of personal hygiene I would have assumed him gay if it weren’t for his obvious ogling of my co-worker’s breasts. 

I ordered another drink and looked back at him, my face flushing when I saw both sets of eyes on me. Lily turned back to him and they continued talking, but every so often he would look at me like whipped cream on jello. I thought I was accustomed to that look, but apparently not. Still, I didn’t let it bother me, he had moved enough that I could see the basketball again and I happily watched until it was my turn on stage. 

I danced perfunctorily for the first song, no extra effort, no eye contact, still sexy but in a way that said ‘despite my job description, do not bother’. The song changed and I removed my dress, leaving me in just the standard issue thong, which was skimpy… even for a thong. It looked like I was misusing an eyepatch.   
I made my first mistake when I moved to the back of the stage, leaning against the wall-length mirror. I looked at him, and those eyes were burning. In any other man, on any other night my brain would have screamed ‘jackpot’, but tonight, with him, I didn’t want to go into the private room… not because I didn’t like him, but because I did. I wasn’t sure how I could tell that man to sit back in his seat, I didn’t think I could tell him not to touch between my legs, and I definitely couldn’t ask him not to kiss me.   
At this point of high-stress I did what I always did, kept going. I moved through the routine like it was any other night, lightly tracing over my body, doing all the things that make me look like I’m enjoying myself, only tonight I genuinely was. At the beginning of the final song he moved to one of the seats only a metre from the stage, if you sit there, you’re tipping or you’re a dick, but considering he just moved away from his seat with Lily, it was still highly likely he was just a dick. 

This chain of events set me up perfectly for my second mistake. I was wet, which in a thong like that was painfully evident, maybe not to the other girls, but definitely to him- and then I thought about if he was tipping, if I had to remove the offending undergarment then he would know for sure, and like he read my mind he crept forward. I slid down the pole and onto the polished floor, onto my hands and knees in front of him, like I would for any other tipper. I arched my back, my ass bouncing to the rhythm of the music. He slid the note into the band and I continued my dance, only realising as I took the article off that he had tipped me a hundred dollar bill. I’d seen that happen once or twice, but the girls who got tips like that were extraordinary, I did not place myself in that category. 

Luckily the song soon ended and I was freed from the prison of the stage, I hurriedly picked up my clothes and retreated into the dressing room. After finding a new thong and dressing I returned to the lounges to see that he had gone. I walked over to Lily,   
“Where’d the big spender go?” She shrugged and I went back to the TV where my eyes stayed, but my mind did not, for the remainder of the night.


	2. Season 2

It was eight months and twenty eight days until I saw that man again. He returned clean-shaven, with a cane and a limp. I felt like I’d been punched in the chest the way my heart thudded in response. My brain provided the ever-subtle, 

“What the hell happened to you?” he gulped and I cartoonishly put a hand over my mouth. 

“You remember me?” I cursed myself internally,

“Yeah, you tipped me a hundred on an otherwise crappy night.” He smiled crookedly,

“What are you drinking?”

“Just lemonade, I have to drive.” He nodded and ordered me another and a whiskey for himself. 

“Why don’t we sit down and I’ll explain what the hell happened to me.” He offered smoothly and we sat on the couch he had sat on with Lily those months ago. “I own a psychiatric hospital in Baltimore, a patient got out and decided to have a surgical…funfair.” I stared at him blankly, “A psychiatric hospital is like a jail for…”

“Yeah I know what a psychiatric hospital is, I was wondering… are you okay?”

“Of course, and I’m not here for pity.” His reply was guarded, as someone who spent hours a day reading people, this was a man who was not okay. But also a man who didn’t want to talk about it,

“So what are you here for?” 

“I’ve decided not to do things by halves anymore. I talked myself out of getting a dance with you last time I was here and now I can’t help but think how unfortunate it would have been for me to die without that in my memory.” I blushed, I don’t blush over pick-up lines, they were sort of par for the course. 

“So shall we?” I asked, standing and taking his hand, guiding him over to the private rooms. 

“How long would you like Sir?” My manager asked as he handed over his card,

“Umm… half an hour.” He mumbled and the woman smiled at him,

“Have fun.” She winked,

“We will.” I winked at the man and for once he looked flustered, I squeezed his arm and opened the door to the private room. For once in my dancing career, I wished this room didn’t have so many cameras. 

I stood back, letting him choose a place to sit, he sat back on the soft leather seat, cushions surrounded him as well as a thin curtain which gave the air of privacy, despite me knowing that there are two cameras inside this space. 

“W-would you mind?” he mumbled, signalling at the curtain. I untied the thick golden rope that held the curtain aside and let it fall, making the space considerably more intimate. His hands rested on his knees and he just sat there and ruined every assumption I had made in my time dancing. He looked like a type 1, he talked like a type 2 but he sat there, so still, almost nervous like one of my awestruck virgins. 

During the first twenty minutes I gave what I would now recognise as a satisfactory lap dance, purely mechanical, everything it needed to be but with no energy or feeling like I usually added in a weird display of customer service. 

The main thing I noticed to be missing was eye contact. Obviously clients spend only about a third of the allotted time looking at my face, but it is arguably the most important part, intimacy. If I can look into the man’s eyes and exude genuine affection and arousal, it doesn’t matter what the rest of my body is doing, he thinks it’s real, it’s all for him, it’s naïve, and desperate, and something that really shouldn’t be dwelled upon.

Stupidly, I had gained confidence in my air of impartiality and risked a look to his face, finding myself sinking into the mesmerising green of his eyes. They looked so much more intense now, I told myself it was the lighting when really I knew it to be lust. 

“You know it’s only in my g-string that you’re not allowed to touch right?”

“Ah…yes, thank you.” He continued to sit with his hands on his knees, his knuckles white from clenching his fists. I straddled him, just enough space between us that the controller can be sure nothing inappropriate is happening. With one hand I squeezed his shoulder while the other travelled down my stomach, skimming over my hipbone and disappearing into the tiny triangle of material. 

“Would you like to do the honours?” I always offered, the clips on the sides made things easy and the guys never say no, at least he conformed on that level. He nodded and nimbly unclipped one side, his fingers drifting over my navel moving to the other side, I shivered slightly and he seemed to notice. After waiting a second for me to stop him he unclipped the other side and I slipped it off, throwing it onto the ground. I heard his breath stutter as he appraised me, he looked into my eyes, as if asking for permission. I nodded and he went to speak before stopping himself,

“Whatever you want to say or ask… just go for it, I guarantee I’ll have heard it before.” I smiled encouragingly,

“I wanted to tell you that… you are beautiful, but I figured you get enough sleazy compliments, which you essentially just confirmed.”

“I haven’t heard that before.” I whispered, still slightly in shock, while continuing the dance to show the controller that everything was okay. He stared at me quizzically, “I mean… I’ve heard sleazy compliments, but no one has said I was… that.” He smiled but his eyes looked sad, his hands rested on my hips as I moved to the beat of the music, I wanted to break all of the rules for him, I wanted to go home with him.


	3. Season 3

It was almost as long again until he returned to my club, I rushed over to him when he walked in the door. 

“Hey! How are you?” I mentally warned myself to keep it light, no need to repeat the social faux pas of his last visit. 

“Well, as you have no doubt noticed but are polite enough not to comment on, I was shot in the face.” 

I gasped, for a moment I had forgotten how intense he was, and his disdain for social norms. Honestly, you could barely notice the wound, it just looked like a round bruise, he probably had makeup on it but still, he sure didn’t look to me like you would imagine someone would having been SHOT IN THE FACE.   
His eyes did though, each time I saw him they got darker, more hopeless, a reminder that while his body would heal his mind would not. 

“No I wasn’t, but I think it suits you.” I winked, ‘keep it light, keep it light’ my mind repeated. 

“You wouldn’t without the cosmetics.” He mumbled and I pretended not to hear, “You can ask what happened, I know you’re trying to be polite but neither of us will comfortable until you know.” 

“Was it another of your…lot?” 

“In a way…” I quirked an eyebrow,

“He kills people, displays their bodies like works of art and keeps pieces to eat later on. While he would not look out of place in my institution, I remain sure that he is quite sane.”

“No sane person would shoot you.” I flirted, genuinely unlike any other night at work. 

“You should see me in the mornings.” He shot me a lopsided smirk and I grinned at the tiny flicker of light in his eyes. 

“Maybe I should.” He did the closest replica of a spit-take I had ever seen and I giggled. 

“While I’d like to agree, it wasn’t him who shot me… he framed me for his crimes, the frame however was so convincing that a woman he had abducted… mistook me as her captor.”

“I’m so sorry Doctor, I’ve never heard of anyone with a worse run of luck.”

“And yet I survived… again, some would argue that I am actually incredibly lucky.” 

“Having met me and all…” I joked,

“Yes, having met you is definitely a highlight.” His face was serious, his eyes begging for acceptance, I smiled sweetly, my manager signalling me to go on stage. 

“I’ll see you in three songs.” I winked and stood up, determined to give him the best show of his life. However, when I came out of the dressing room onto the stage his seat was empty, not at the bar, his drink was half-full and left on his table, no cover, he wasn’t coming back for it. 

Without any cause, I felt betrayed. I went home soon after the dance, I couldn’t flirt with another man while my mind was stuck on him.


End file.
